


Antisocial

by fetts



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Begging, Blow Jobs, Choking/Asphxiation, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Language, F/M, Hair-pulling, Mention of Groping, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Spanking, fem!reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fetts/pseuds/fetts
Summary: A certain infamous Mandalorian didn't come to catch a quarry, and you decide to have some fun with his peculiar behaviour.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Reader, Boba Fett & You, Boba Fett/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 76





	Antisocial

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a little rougher in certain spots: there is an instance of dub-con choking of the reader/choking as a means of intimidation (not to inflict violence) when they're talking at the table, so please be mindful of that if it makes you uncomfortable!
> 
> This was also written before the release of S2 so it's technically 'young Boba' :)  
> (Disclaimer that reader also calls him 'Mando' - just in case that throws you off).

It wasn’t uncommon to see the occasional bounty hunter stroll into the bustling environment of the Outlander. It was a hot-spot for almost any form of criminal activity possible, and seeing a hunter was expected on a nightly basis. 

Bounty droids, Trandoshans, Mandalorians, and the rare Palliduvan would appear every so often to secure their quarry that was hiding-out within. 

Despite the almost deafening thump of the music, colourful lights strobing every which way, and large bodies of individuals crammed together around the main stage, the hunters always found what they were looking for; and never left empty handed. 

It’s a dumb place to hide, and that’s what makes it an obvious place to search. 

All bounty hunters appear to come in rather peacefully, and then leave completely calm; unfazed by whatever events had taken place moments before, despite the troublesome flailing and struggling from their quarry on the way out. 

It was rather entrancing to watch them work - to watch them pick out a not-so random person from the crowd, cuff them with ease with no hesitation or so much as a confrontation, and then disappear back into the night. 

This routine behaviour justifies why you were a little confused when a rather familiar Mandalorian wasn’t immediately searching through the sweaty masses when he came in, but rather sauntering over to a booth and planting himself in the seat - in the farthest corner away from the clusters of shit-faced life-forms. 

You’ve seen him come in here and there, but this time you’re a little more intrigued in his unknown intentions and uncharacteristic behaviour. 

Despite being a performer, you quickly learned that it doesn’t hurt to mingle with guests every now and then. Not to mention, it’s a good way to make some extra credits - you’re basically offering them a more interactive experience, and they never hesitate to slip you some additional gratuities after. 

You figured it wouldn’t hurt to slip away for a moment; you would likely go unnoticed anyway, whether that’s from your fellow dancers, customers, the audience, or your rather absent boss. 

It wouldn’t hurt - rather the opposite.

Your attire is not exactly appealing to everyone - with you being in a sparkly deep-blush coloured thong that not only leaves your entire ass on display but also leaves very little to the imagination in the front. It’s matched with a ‘bikini’ (if you could call it that) top that barely provides support never mind coverage. 

You’re rather exposed, you feel rather exposed, but this is what you do, and you’re going to do your job - entertain.

You’ve been glancing at him from time-to-time from around your pole on stage; from the moment he walked in, to the moment he made himself quite comfortable in the booth. 

When you decide to finally step away, you head towards the bar for a drink. As you casually sneak another look at him, you realize he’s watching this time. 

At least you think he is. It’s hard to gage if he's looking at you, or just gazing in your general direction at something else entirely. 

He looks like any other Mandalorian you’ve seen, not that you’ve seen many, yet there’s something that feels ambiguous about him. 

The colours on his armour appear faded, chipping away slowly to reveal the metallic base underneath. The green is muted, it reminds you of a shade that most would include in a camouflage garment. A deep red pigment was used as an accent on his helmet, and it perfectly outlines the ‘T’ of the visor that conceals so much and tells so little.

The deep tint of his visor hides the answers you want. But his body language seems to tell you everything you need to know. 

One of his arms is slung over the back of the booth, his helmet angled slightly downwards as if he’s closely tracking prey, his back is slump against the cushions, his legs are spread open just the tiniest bit wider than would be expected from someone of his status. 

Relaxed is how you would describe it, but you know it’s something else he’s silently eluding to. You think.

You turn away from his supposed watchful eyes and suddenly feel just a little thirstier than before. 

“Just a water, please,” you ask the bartender. He nods, quickly sliding you a glass, the ice tinkling as it swishes around the cup. “Thanks.” 

You take a sip, and then another, and then the frigid ice is touching your lips when there’s nothing more to offer. You set the glass down. You peer at him again. 

He is most definitely looking at you. You swallow down your sudden uneasiness. You avert your eyes away for the shortest second, and suddenly your mind isn't keeping up with your body as you move through the suffocating mob of people, towards him.  
You carefully maneuver through the crowd, your skin becoming clammy as you brush against the sweating bodies - it’s sweltering. As you approach closer, the prominent clacking of your stilettos against the floor is a little too loud, and it bites through the air; ringing in your ears.

But it’s not enough to distract you from the very noticeable way his helmet has now tilted up and shifted in your direction just the slightest - now you know he’s watching you. 

You’re not wearing anything particularly flashy to draw eyes - but: you're not wearing anything and that’s why you draw eyes, but you’ve caught his attention nevertheless. 

You slide into the seat across from him, and he adjusts his posture slightly, straightening his back, but leaving everything else as it was, careless.

You’re a bit on edge; the emotionless helmet staring back at you with nothing but a blank expression is unsettling. You open your mouth to say something - but he beats you to it.

“What do you want?” He says flatly, voice rough through the filter of the vocoder. He’s tapping his index finger on the arm resting atop the wood backing of the booth. You chuckle lightly and shake your head. 

Great start, this will definitely go well. You think to yourself.

“I was going to ask you the same thing, Mando,” you begin, leaning forward and resting your arms on the table, intertwining your hands (and shamelessly accentuating your boobs in the process). 

“No quarry tonight?” You ask in a more teasing tone than you mean to.

He lets his head loll to the side before bringing it back just as quick, as if saying ‘I suppose not...what’s it to you?’.  
“Get to the point,” he says firmly, not making it a suggestion. He remains as still as a statue besides the constant tap of his finger.

“What else would you be here for then? Your kind never stay longer than needed,” you point out, genuinely confused. Your brows draw together, your legs cross under the table, and you lean in just a bit closer, waiting patiently for what’s hopefully a satisfying answer.

“That doesn't seem to concern you, now does it?” He offers in a tone of warning, bringing the tapping finger into a fist before setting the arm on the table - mocking you. He also leans in, challenging you - daring you to ask another prying question, daring you to say another word. 

So, naturally, you do. 

“You just seem rather...lonely tonight,” you fake a pout. “But, I can fix that if you’d like?...” You trail off and offer a sly smile, darting your tongue out to cool your burning lips. 

Uncrossing your legs, you draw your foot up against his, enforcing your offer and hoping he’ll accept it.

For the first time tonight, his gaze leaves yours first. He swiftly aims his helmeted glare down at the table as you drag your impeccably clean stiletto up and down the side of his calf. Then he draws his head back up, locking his invisible scowl back onto you. And you’re both silent. 

Yeah, you wanna fuck him. So what? It is kind of your job...kind of. He’s just so alluring, and stoic, and stringent, and--

You continue the slow movement of caressing his leg, keeping the touch feather-light as you wait for him to rebuttal.

By now, the roaring music seems to have quieted to a dull humming, and the loud chattering has subsided, making you able to focus entirely on him.

He gives you a slight head tilt, and then your vision turns hazy for a moment as you feel an unyielding pressure around your neck. The table shakes under the disturbance, and your hands latch onto the sides to steady the spinning world. 

When your eyes open, refocus, and your body stops flailing, you’re much closer to his face. His right hand holds a tight grip around your throat, pulling you out of your seat and halfway over the table. The material of his gloves scratch and burn the sensitive skin around your neck and under your jaw.

No one seems to notice. No one seems to hear the rattling of the table, see what kind of position you’re in, or hear your desperate gasps for air.

You’re able to draw a few breaths down to your lungs, your eyes now wide and filled with confusion. You’re able to see the reflection of your fearful face in his glossy visor. Your arms quiver from trying to fight against his grip from pulling you closer, and possibly into his lap.

“I know exactly what you’re trying to get from me, girl, but I can assure you, I’m not that fucking easy.” He spits out, offended that you would dare to try to seduce him.

At this distance, you swear you can hear his unfiltered voice as it travels through the helmet and into your ringing ears.

You choke down another short breath, offering pleading, watery eyes. He releases you, and you fall back against the soft cushion; your hand flying to your throat and sucking in air like you’ve been deprived all your life.

When your bleary eyes open and land on him again, he looks unfazed...unbothered. He lounges against the booth, just as he was before.

“There’s a hands-off policy, you know that right, buckethead?” You pant, rubbing your irritated throat and holding a scowl so dirty that if looks could kill, he’d be a goner.

He shrugs. “No, there’s not,” he tilts his head towards the stage, swirling a finger around in the air, pointing out various dancers being groped by multiple hands at once. 

“They either aren’t following the policy, or you’re lying. And I think I know which one it is.” He finishes, turning back to you and cocking his head to the side. Fuck.  
He can tell you’re lying. You know he knows you’re lying.

You roll your eyes. He chuckles, leaning forward again, confident - cocky.

“If there was a hands-off policy, don’t you think your friends would actually want to follow it? Preserve what’s left of their dignity? Or are all of you just whores, hm?”

His voice grows quieter. “As you know, this isn’t my first experience.” He growls. 

You were hoping he didn't notice your friends through the depths of various handsy men and women crowding them, but there's just so many; it’s hard to ignore.

You let out a little sigh, trying to calm your racing heart. You fold your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling insecure. “What do you want?” You ask in annoyance, scared for his answer.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” his shoulders shake once with a single chuckle. You don't know what’s going on inside his head, but you have a feeling he has you right where he wants you.

“Whatever game you’re playing-” he interjects before you can even start.

“I don’t play games. In fact, I think you do,” he accuses, pointing a finger at you. His tone is stern and demanding. He makes a valid point, and he knows he does.

To be fair, you did come over here with the intention of exchanging some flirtatious words before hoping he’d be willing to have some fun. Fuck...he’s good.

“So, what game do you wanna play here? ‘Cause I got all night.” He continues, shaking his head, clearly trying to get something more climactic from this interaction. 

You chew on your lip, eyes darting from side-to-side in thought. You can't stand staring into the void that is his visor when he’s able to see every micro-expression you make, while you get nothing in return.

Your eyes flick back up to him - he’s waiting.

You lean back onto the table, so does he, baring his weight on his forearms. You hold a powerful gaze with the ‘T’, your eyes never moving, showing him your resilience.

“I think you know what game I wanna play,” it almost comes out as a whisper. “and I can tell you wanna play, too,” he lets out a heavy sigh and shakes his head.

“You're infuriating,” he states, and you shrug in agreement. He sighs once more, a short huff of air, almost as if he's rethinking the entire situation. 

“Let’s see if you're right.” He waves his hand, motioning for you to continue. Your smile at his compliance is probably a little too big.

You slide out of the booth and call over your shoulder, “This way, Mando.” He stalks closely behind you. It’s...intimidating. The clank of the various pieces armour against each other and the chatter of spurs in unnerving.

You lead him back through the dense population of low-lifes, around the side of the stage, and into a separate corridor - the brothel. You never bother to look back at him over your shoulder, you know he’s still there.

The hallway is lined with various doors that have names pasted to them: Driss, Ryoo, Sachi, Inisa, Kubari, Velanie, Lyris, Malreaux, and-  
“Nova?” He notices the name on the door you stop in front of and tests it on his tongue. You flush. “It’s my stage name,” you explain as you fumble with the knob. 

“It’s not like anyone remembers it, though.” You mumble, more to yourself than him, before getting the door open and letting him pass you.

You busy yourself with making sure the door is locked after he walks in, and hope it’s going to stay that way.

As you’re securing the last lock, he interrupts your wild thoughts. 

“Are there rules, missy?” You turn to him and begin searching your frazzled mind.

“A few...no leaving bite marks, scratch marks, or hickeys. No butt stuff - personal preference -,” you count them out on your fingers as he listens intently, leaning against the pole placed in the middle of the room.

“and no spitting or cumming in me. Even though I have the implant, it’s just an extra safety measure,” you finish the list and you see him nodding his head slowly in understanding. 

“I can work with that.” He gives you his consent and understanding. You nod, nervous all the sudden. You’ve done this countless times before, but this time, your client is much more coherent, attentive, predatory; and it makes you feel like you’re the quarry.

Your nakedness compared to his rather protected and covered body makes you fold into yourself slightly, almost cowering. Of course, he notices.

He pushes himself off the pole and silently stalks towards you. His green cuirass comes into view and you tilt your head up to his, meeting a gaze of darkness.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he tips your chin with his finger in an effort to comfort you. You close your eyes and shake your head quickly.

“I’m sorry- you’re just...very intimidating,” you hesitantly admit, cringing at your sudden fear.

“Do you not do this...all the time?” he questions, not understanding your apprehension. “I do...I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” You dismiss his concern with a wave of your hand.

He tilts his head to the side and back again, as if saying ‘if you say so’. 

You build up the courage to grab his covered hand and lead him to sit on the bed.

The instant he sits down, he grabs the backs of your thighs and pulls you down with him and straight into his lap, straddling him. You grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself. His hands wander and caress every place they're able to reach - which is everywhere, making you let out a content noise of pleasure. 

He grabs handfuls of your thighs, squeezing, squishing, pulling you closer to him. You let out a quiet gasp at the feeling as your muscles release the tension in your body.

He soothes your thighs with a few gentle caresses, and then moves to your ass. When he reaches it, his visor moves its gaze from his hands, and meets your own - a twinge of arousal and fear shoots down your spine and into your cunt. 

You let out a small moan when he finally squeezes, and then let your head roll back when he lets go and does it again.

One hand trails up your spine and rests on the middle of your back, fiddling with the bow that holds your ‘bra’ tightly to you. He tugs at it, and the flimsy strings swing by your sides. The hand then goes up to the base of your neck, and unties the last knot, letting the piece fall between you, revealing you him.

Both large hands find a comfortable spot on your tits and grasp as much as they’re able to. 

“Oh, my God-- just fuck me already, Mando-- fuck,” it comes out before you can phrase is nicely, or even stop it. You’re not used to taking things slow.

“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to ask for things,” his hands stop and slip down to rest on your hips. You let out a whine, pouting your lips.

“...Please?...” You offer, giving him doe-eyes.

He cocks his head at you, unconvinced. “I know you can do better than that,” his hands pull away from your hips, and you feel him tugging at his gloves behind your back. You can hear the fabric rustling before the dull thump of them falling to the floor fills your ears.

You’re never the one begging. Never. 

“Go on. What do you want? Tell me,” he encourages softly. His freed hands slide back to your hips, and they burn against your skin.

You pout again. A sharp slap stings your left thigh. “Ow!...oww...-”

“I’m waiting, and I don’t want to be for much longer,” he warns, fingers gliding over the blooming handprint and trailing down to the front of your thong.

You let out a huff of frustration. He uses the pad of his index finger to gently tease your clit under the thin fabric, rubbing it in small circles.

You exhale a blissful sigh at the contact, letting your eyes fall shut. He uses his other hand to weave his fist around the string on your hip, pulling it, once, twice...then it frays apart; falling open to reveal where you want him most. 

“What do you want, hm? My fingers?...My cock?...” he shamelessly asks, voice unwavering, applying the tiniest bit of pressure to your bare clit.

Your mouth drops open in an inaudible gasp, your hands clench around his firm and unarmored biceps. You can feel your folds getting slicker with each pass of his finger.

“A-all of it. I want all of it. Please,” you confess, feeling short of breath. “That’s all you had to say. That wasn’t hard, was it?” He lets out a little laugh. You have a feeling this isn't the first time he's treated someone like this. 

Your hips begin rocking against his finger, and you don’t try to hold in the whimper that escapes your throat, but you should’ve...because he pulls away.

“Get on your knees,” he snarls and moves you off his lap. You quickly discard the ripped thong and toss your stilettos to the side before kneeling gently on the floor in front of him, waiting.

“I think you know what to do.” You nod silently, averting your gaze from his visor down to where his cock is concealed behind a cod-piece and a zipper. 

You reach your shaky hands to the clasp of the cod-piece and snap it loose, prying the covering off and tossing it on the floor. The hardness of his cock now very evident. You carefully manipulate the button, popping it free as you greedily undo the zipper in record time.

His shielded stare never leaves your face, watching you do your best to please him, wanting to please him.

It takes some tugs and stretching of fabric, but you’re able to pull him free. Your mouth basically waters at the sight of him - swollen, heavy, and blushed in your comparatively small hand.

“Get to work...or I’ll make you work for it,” he threatens, in no mood for the pleasantries. “Yes, sir.” You nod and adjust your grip on him.

You close your eyes and experimentally draw your tongue up from base to tip, and he takes a shaky breath, letting his head fall back a little.

You do it again, but close your lips around him when you reach the top. Your tongue lightly swirls around the head before you push your mouth farther down. He moans - it’s tight, airy, and you need more.

One of the most feared hunters in the galaxy, completely vulnerable in front of you, and letting you suck his cock.

You continue bobbing your head on every stroke, letting your hand work what you can’t fit, yet still gagging anyway. Saliva is pooling over your hand, and he lets out a groan every time you push down. You soon switch between running your mouth over him and working him in your hand to give your jaw a break.

One of his hands grabs a fistful of your hair, forcing you to look at him as you bring him closer to the edge. Your hand makes rapid strokes up and down his cock.

“You love this don’t you?” He praised, running his fingers through your hair and caressing your scalp. 

He’s right. You don't know his name, you haven’t seen his face, and yet you’re willing to do anything he tells you to.

“I do, sir,” you whine, “I love it,” your hand slows down, but not enough to halt his building pleasure.

“Yeah...I know you do. You’d let me do anything, wouldn't you?” It’s more of a statement, but he knows your answer.

You nod frantically, your grip around him never faltering; but interrupted by his own hand grabbing your wrist - stopping you. Your eyes fill with confusion and disappointment.

“I think it’s your turn now, little miss,” he pulls your wrist to get you to stand up.

Your knees wobble, aching from the hard floor. He stands and moves behind you, shoving at your back. You stumble forward and plant your arms on the bed to stop yourself from face-planting on the soft surface.

“On the bed. Get on all fours.” He smacks your ass in encouragement, making you crawl onto the bed and form the position.

You rest your head on your arms, arching your back and bending your knees, putting your ass on display for him. You feel the mattress dip to the left and then the right, feeling him crawl closer.

The air that swishes between you makes your heart-rate pick up - you can feel how wet you are; the coolness of the breeze against your pussy makes you shiver in anticipation.

A warm hand settles on your ass, but not before giving it a firm smack. You jolt forwards a bit and let out a gasp, but move back quickly, needing more.

His fingers dance over the irritated skin, glide down your thigh, and move inwards towards your cunt. You close your eyes - waiting, preparing.

He hums in satisfaction when his eyes fall upon your dripping centre. He runs his index through your folds, collecting your arousal. You whimper and push your hips back, wanting more.

“All this for me? I’ve barely touched you, missy,” you bury your face in the crook of your arm, embarrassed and needy.

He continues rubbing you, teasing your aching clit gently. “...Please...please, I need m-more- fuck,” you’re gasping around your words, almost ready to cry. 

You can’t see him - literally and figuratively - but you imagine he slowly shakes his head at your pleading, displeased; so desperate for someone who could kill you within an instant.

“Careful; if you can’t take it, then too fucking bad.” He pulls his teasing finger away. You whine at his blunt words. 

You feel the hand rest over your hip, and you feel him nudge your entrance. It takes a few pushes before the head slips in abruptly; you instinctively lean forward, pulling away from the intrusion.

He quickly leans over you and grabs your shoulder, pulling you back onto him entirely. He goes deeper then you expected, knocking the wind out of you in one swift movement.

“Oh- f-fuck,” you gasp, trying to catch your breath, closing your eyes, twisting your fingers in the sheets. The feeling of being filled makes your mind go blank.

“Are you gonna be good for me?” It’s breathless, he wants this just as bad as you, he just has self control.

You groan, “Yes, sir- please,” you pant, clenching around him. He hums, acting as if he was deep in thought. “Since you asked so nicely-”

He pulls out slowly and plows back into you; your body jerks forward at the contact; your back over-stretching itself. His hand goes back rest on your hip, using them as leverage as he fucks you relentlessly - pulling you back to meet him as he thrusts forward. 

The ease in which he slides in and out of you is sinful - your wetness slowly making its way down your thighs every time he pushes in.

Your muscles seem to go numb - tingling, and every time his cock works its way back in, another tear rolls down your cheek. 

His cock continuously ruts against the pleasurable spot inside you that makes your thighs shake, the force of his thrusts knocking you off balance; and you collapse flat onto your stomach, your muscles too weak to hold yourself up.

He doesn't relent; if anything, he fucks you harder, faster, meaner. You’re left laying helpless as he bends and leans over your limp body, grabbing your wrists with his hands and locking them in place as he drives into you as if he was starved from pleasure. 

The new angle makes you tighter - you can feel more of him. You let out high-pitched whimpers every time his hips connect with your ass - and every time his cock reaches a new depth.

Your face is buried in the pillow, your moans and cries muffled slightly.

“I can’t hear you-” you’re too focused on your approaching orgasm to hear anything but your bodies connecting. “I said,” he releases one of your wrists and grabs your hair, pulling you from the pillow. “I can’t fucking hear you,” he hisses. Your neck is straining, but his fist in your hair feels heavenly. 

You cry out. “O-oh, God-...fuck- fuck. I- I love it,” you choke out through moans, too overcome with pleasure to be coherent. “Yeah, I know you do,” he brings his head down beside yours - your cheek meets cold beskar.

“I can tell you’re close,” he observes, tone just above a whisper. You clench around him involuntarily, unable to give a verbal response. He pulls away, releasing your hair and letting your head fall back into the pillow.

He lifts himself and pulls you back onto your knees in the process, his rhythm never faltering, wanting to fuck you harder. He slowly caresses your ass and thighs simultaneously, making you sigh at the contrast of the sensations.

“You take me so well...I’d knew you'd be good for me,” he says, accentuating his point with a sharp push of his cock, forcing it deeper inside you; and you imagine he’s watching himself slide in and out of your slick cunt - taking pride in his work, and you can’t help but let your eyes roll back.

Another particularly rough jut of his hips brings you to realize just how close you are. Your head shoots up from the pillow in panic. “S-shit, oh, fuck. Fuck- can I c-cum? Please, Mando-” you feel your release teetering on the edge, hoping he’ll say yes; you wouldn’t be able to hold off if he said no, and you don’t wanna know what will happen if you disobey a Mandalorian.

“Manners go a long way with me,” he grunts. You whine, your body begins to shake. 

“Yes, you can.” With his permission, you let out a sob, your muscles spasming, contracting as you feel heat rush through your stomach and into your cunt. You hear him curse, maintaining his pace as he fucks himself to his release through yours.

You feel your juices slide down your thighs and onto the bed, you clench around him violently - overstimulated. “M-Mando- fuck- too much, o-oh, God-”

You don’t think he hears you, or he just doesn't care. You know what he told you, and his pace becomes desperate. 

You feel him pull out and release on your ass with a shudder followed by a heavy sigh - one you would never imagine to ever hear from someone like him. You let out shaky breath as you allow your body to collapse back onto the bed, basking in the remnants of your orgasm; your entire body on fire.

He shifts off of the mattress silently and tucks himself back into his pants, securing the cod-piece overtop. 

You open your eyes and roll onto your back at the sound of him rustling, feeling his cum smear onto the sheets. You watch him slip his gloves back on, and he meets your eyes. Yup, still intimidating.

“What’s your rate?” He asks. You sit up, a wide smile breaks out on your face.

“For you? No charge,” you never let anyone have a private session for free, but something tells you you can let this one slide.

“On one condition,” you raise a finger. He tilts his head in curiosity, visor reflecting the dim light. “I’ll see you again,” it’s almost a question, and you don’t want to scare him off. You haven’t been this entranced by anyone that’s ever set foot in your room, and you don’t want this encounter to be a one-time thing.

He sighs softly, adjusting various part of his armour - thinking. His head begins to nod in thought.

“As you wish.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: bxbafett  
> Please leave a comment if you had a good time! They bring me so much joy :)


End file.
